


Counting breaths

by Kitacular



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Gen, Injury, Male Friendship, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 04:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11455872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitacular/pseuds/Kitacular
Summary: D'Artagnan suffers his first injury with the Musketeers and has to lean on his friend to deal with the pain.





	Counting breaths

**Author's Note:**

> I've no idea where I picked this prompt up. It's not in my emails because I keep all the emails you lovely people send me but it was in my unfilled prompt folder. Let it be known, however, I do fill prompts eventually.  
> Prompt was as follows:
> 
> Someone (not picky about who) takes a hit and someone else talks them through the pain, maybe telling them what to expect and how they are going to be feeling and to not be afraid. 
> 
> Bonus points for staying with the scene through the eventual arrival of a Doctor (or whoever) and treatment.
> 
> Extra bonus points for the wounded party thanking the comforting party after the danger has passed.

Athos ducked quickly, the ball sailing over his head and slamming into the wall behind him. Before he stood, he quickly scanned the scene and stayed down for the few seconds it took Aramis to finish reloading and fire his pistol, hitting the man who had just fired. Athos crouched to one knee and continued his assessment while reloading his own firearm.

  
  


 

It seemed the fight was just about over. Three men ran out the door of the cellar, Porthos in hot pursuit. Aramis jumped up to run after him but Athos shouted his name.

“I'll go. You take d'Artagnan,” he said, gesturing at their Gascon friend, laying on the floor beside him.

Aramis nodded once and Athos took off, chasing after Porthos. The marksman reloaded his pistol, just in case, as he knelt beside d'Artagnan. His eyes swept his friend, taking in the large red patch of blood on his right sleeve, the pale tone to his naturally tanned skin, the sheen of sweat on his face and, most worryingly, the way both of his hands were clamped around his thigh. Blood was still seeping between his fingers.

Aramis laid his pistol beside him and pressed the palm of one hand against d'Artagnan's forehead.

“D'Artagnan,” he said quietly. He repeated it again, louder.

“Aramis,” d'Artagnan muttered, his teeth still gritted. “I'm not deaf.”

“Ah, good. Just your leg?”

“Yes.”

“The blood on your arm?”

“Not mine.”

“Splendid,” Aramis said brightly. “First big wound?”

“Lucky me,” the Gascon muttered.

“Indeed. You've made it quite a while,” Aramis mused. “You're in good hands. You're going to have to do this without wine, I'm afraid.”

“Brilliant,” d'Artagnan answered, glaring at his friend.

“I need my kit. I'll be just a moment.”

D'Artagnan nodded and listened as Aramis' boots clumped on the stairs out of the cellar. He stared down at his leg, grimacing. He lifted one hand curiously and nearly bit through his lip at the spike of pain. Fear flared in his stomach, having seen people forced into retirement or crippled by wounds in the leg. A slight feeling of shame bloomed in his chest when he felt a ridiculous swell of relief, hearing Aramis returning.

“So... breeches off! Hurrah!” Aramis exclaimed, settling back onto his knees at d'Artagnan's side, rolled up kit in his hand.

“Was this... an elaborate... scheme to get... me naked?”

Aramis studied d'Artagnan's face for several long seconds..

“I would never dare do such a thing out in the open,” Aramis said teasingly but his voice was much softer. He placed his hand on the Gascon's forehead again, feeling the sweat beading there. “How does it feel?”

“Hot. Painful. Like... Like a hot poker... only... more,” he grimaced.

“Okay. That's good, believe it or not,” Aramis answered, smiling brightly. “Let's have a look.”

He unlaced d'Artagnan's breeches, opening them wide. It took a lot of effort to get the Gascon to release the grip on his wound just long enough to raise his buttocks off the ground and let Aramis shimmy the leather down past the wound. His hands immediately clamped back around it and Aramis smiled at him.

“Honestly, my young friend. It's not as bad as it looks,” he said calmly. “Trust me.”

D'Artagnan huffed out a disbelieving chuckle, his eyes focused on the fabric of his braies, soaked with blood.

“Trust me?” Aramis repeated, a question this time. His voice had gone soft again and d'Artagnan nodded.

The Gascon watched as Aramis used the dagger at the small of his back to cut the fabric away from his thigh, carefully moving around d'Artagnan's hands.

“Let me look,” Aramis said gently.

D'Artagnan reluctantly lifted his hands, the now free patch of blood soaked fabric coming away with it. He stared at the wound for a few seconds before lifting his eyes to Aramis' face. Those black intelligent eyes were flickering constantly across the wound and yet the small crease in his brow looked to be just concentration, not fear.

“How- How's it look?” he asked.

“Surprisingly clean,” Aramis mused. “We thought it was a ball.”

“Knife,” d'Artagnan answered through gritted teeth.

Aramis nodded, his eyes not moving from the wound even as he deftly undid the string on his pack, unrolling it with a single, practised movement.

“OK, d'Artagnan,” Aramis said, quietly. “I'm going to start cleaning it. This will hurt but keep breathing.”

The Gascon nodded but couldn't stop himself sucking a sharp breath in through his teeth as white hot pain flared in his thigh. He gritted his teeth a little harder as Aramis began to swipe the wetness away from the hair on his thigh.

“Breathe,” Aramis reminded him.

D'Artagnan shook his head, the pain building as Aramis' motions got closer to the centre of the ball of pain. A hand pressed sharply on his abdomen and his breath whooshed out of him.

“You have to breathe,” Aramis said, looking at him intently.

D'Artagnan stared back helplessly, pain in his leg overwhelming his senses.

Aramis tilted his head for a second and then inhaled slowly, his entire body drawing upwards with the motion. D'Artagnan obediently mirrored the action and exhaled when Aramis did so.

“Breathe in for the count of three and out for three,” Aramis said quietly.

D'Artagnan inhaled slowly, counting in his head. As he reached three, he watched Aramis nod and exhaled the breath slowly, counting to three again.

“Keep that up,” Aramis said.

D'Artagnan nodded and yet on his next inhalation, his breath shook as Aramis began to wipe again. The next few breaths were shakier as the painful strokes grew closer and closer to his wound but gradually it evened out.

“Brilliant,” Aramis praised softly, never looking up from d'Artagnan's leg. “One.. Two.. Three.. Perfect.”

D'Artagnan nodded but fisted his hands in his shirt when he felt fingers probing at the wound, pain searing through his leg. His breathing was entirely interrupted when he gave a small shout of pain as Aramis pressed cloth firmly against the centre of the wound.

“OK. OK. You're OK,” Aramis chanted softly, lifting the pressure.

“Aramis,” d'Artagnan mumbled.

“I've got you. It's OK. I need to stitch it but as I said... no wine,” Aramis said, smiling apologetically.

“Can't it wait?” d'Artagnan asked weakly.

“It could,” Aramis said slowly. “It would bleed more and hurt all over again when I do it, though.”

“OK,” the Gascon said, gritting his teeth.

“Hold that, then,” Aramis said, brightly, pressing a piece of cloth against the wound, placing d'Artagnan's hand over the top of it.

D'Artagnan did as he was told and watched carefully as Aramis selected a needle and deftly threaded it. He lifted the corner of the cloth and peeked underneath, seeing the angry red slash in his skin, blood still visible in streaks. He replaced the cloth and grimaced at the blood all over the backs of his hands.

“This is going to hurt,” Aramis said gently, laying his hand over the top of both of d'Artagnan's.

“It already hurts,” the Gascon grimaced.

“I know. It's going to be OK. You're going to feel a lot of tugging and sharpness when the needle pierces but you're going to be strong. You're a Gascon,” Aramis said, his voice growing firm at the end.

D'Artagnan nodded, the motion implying a lot more bravery than he felt. Aramis seemed to see through it, though, and he squeezed d'Artagnan's hands gently.

“I've got you,” he said, black eyes piercing through the bravado filling the brown.

Slowly, d'Artagnan nodded, more genuinely this time, and released his grip on the wound.

“You can close your eyes if you like or count your breaths out loud,” Aramis said, one of his now red soaked cloths swiping over the wound again.

D'Artagnan gratefully closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the crate. He slowly counted his breath in and out, in and out, in and when he exhaled for the third time, Aramis' fingers began to manipulate the flesh.

“Fuck,” he hissed as he exhaled.

“I'm sorry. It has to be done,” Aramis said firmly.

D'Artagnan lightly thumped his head back against the crate, holding it there. Tightening his fists in the material of his shirt, he nodded again.

Aramis' fingers felt like branding irons when they pinched the skin together. The entire area flamed back into life and d'Artagnan realised how much it had faded. The first pierce of the needle barely registered but when it came out the other side, forcing the two patches of agonised flesh to rub against each other, d'Artagnan saw white behind his eyelids.

“One...” Aramis said firmly.

“Two... Three,” d'Artagnan continued, inhaling slowly as the needle plunged back in.

By the time Aramis had finished, d'Artagnan was light headed and almost entirely unable to count. His voice was shaking, his breaths ragged despite the rhythmic counting.

Aramis neatly tied the knot and snipped the thread, flicking his eyes up to d'Artagnan whose face was pale and dripping with sweat.

“Done the hard bit,” Aramis murmured. He raised his hand to press against the moist forehead and smiled when d'Artagnan's eyes fluttered open.

“All stitched?” d'Artagnan asked, weakly.

“Yes,” Aramis answered, beaming. “Just need to wrap it. Place your foot flat on the floor and I'll do the rest.”

D'Artagnan obeyed, grimacing at the change in position. He didn't have the energy to smirk when Aramis rearranged his torn braies to leave his thigh clear. Instead of closing his eyes, this time he watched as Aramis deftly wound a roll of bandage around and around his thigh, looping in and out of the loose fabric. He had to admit, the pressure didn't actually hurt too much. It felt comforting, like a reassuring hand. Aramis added an entire second roll on top, fastening it neatly at the side.

“Still with me?” Aramis asked, gently lowering d'Artagnan's leg back to the floor.

“Think so,” d'Artagnan answered.

“Let's get your breeches back on. Do it all at once,” Aramis said, tugging the leather back up from where it was bunched at d'Artagnan's knees.

The Gascon whined but complied, using his hands to lift his hips and buttocks off the ground. Once seated, he took over, refastening the laces and shifting until he felt relatively comfortable.

“Hurts,” he complained.

Aramis rolled up his kit, smiling sideways at d'Artagnan.

“Don't get stabbed then, OK?”

“I'll try,” d'Artagnan answered, trying to laugh and managing only a huff.

Aramis grinned and tied the string on his kit before shuffling over slightly to grab d'Artagnan's forgotten pistol. He settled comfortably beside d'Artagnan and began to reload it for him.

“How does it feel now?” Aramis asked.

“Throbs,” d'Artagnan answered.

“Better than it was?”

“Yes.”

Aramis didn't reply to this, simply laying the reloaded pistol on d'Artagnan's lap. He was unsurprised to feel d'Artagnan leaning against him.

“How long do you think they'll be?”

“I'm not sure,” Aramis answered. “There were only three left but they took off running.”

“Are we OK to stay here?” d'Artagnan asked, uncertainly.

“Well you can't ride,” Aramis said, surveying him.

“I think I can walk,” d'Artagnan answered.

“OK but we'll only go as far as the horses and then send a messenger to the yard, OK?”

D'Artagnan nodded and gradually, with Aramis' help, inched his way upright, using the crate behind him for support.

“Wow. That... That hurts...”

Aramis chuckled softly and wrapped an arm around d'Artagnan's waist, the Gascon's arm over Aramis' shoulders.

“Step by step, then,” the marksman murmured.

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


“Aramis?”

A soft knock on the wood pillar made him look up.

“D'Artagnan,” Aramis said, smiling warmly. “Good to see you up and about.”

“Yeah,” the Gascon said, limping over and sitting beside him at their favourite table under the Captain's office.

Aramis turned back to the letter he was writing but felt d'Artagnan's eyes studying him.

“Can I help you with something?” he asked.

“I wanted to thank you for yesterday.”

“Not a problem,” Aramis answered, brightly. “I do it for everyone. I am the garrison's seamstress, am I not?”

“I meant... I meant getting me through it,” d'Artagnan clarified, gazing steadily back at Aramis, whose face softened. “Not the physical... not the pain but.... You...”

“We all need a little help now and then,” Aramis said gently.

D'Artagnan nodded and stared down at his hands, clasped together in his lap.

“I'm your brother, d'Artagnan. I'll carry you when you can't walk, pick you up when you fall and I'll make you breathe when you think you can't,” Aramis said, smiling. He turned slightly and took d'Artagnan's hands in his own, squeezing gently. “We're brothers.”

D'Artagnan nodded, his eyes a little watery when he answered.

“Brothers.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts and requests always welcome at kitacularao3 at gmaildotcom :)


End file.
